Todagog: Stories Of An Orc Battlemage - Volume 1
by stephen.m.tolley
Summary: Auto Biography style of a character I played as in skyrim. Its perhaps a little vague in reference to the events in the game, but I really wanted to make it sound like the character is writing this. Was thinking I might make these as mods and put them on the steam site and nexus mods site. planning on doing this with main character too. Constructive Criticism is much appreciated.
1. Chapter 1

Todagog: Stories Of An Orc Battlemage Volume 1: Introduction

To call myself a Battlemage, is perhaps to stretch the reality of my situation. Whilst it is true, I have spilt the blood of my enemy with fire, ice, lightning, and Atronach summoned, and on one occasion Daedra, during the civil war of Skyrim, I only have had experience of that much longed for chaos during said time.

As a wizard, I am drawn to the mystic arts, mysteries of magic, and also am intrigued by Dwemer artefacts, most notably the mechanical spiders and guards that most men and I dare say even mer, would be unfortunate to encounter upon explorations to the depths of Dwarven ruins.

For all these things, I was cast out as an Orc.

The son of a chief killed by a successor, at least that's what they told me. My memory of those times are hazy, and I care not for them in any case. Orcs are sword wielders, as is our way, by the guide of our most honourable saint, Malacath – Daedric Prince Of The Spurned and The Ostracised. Through the teachings of Malacath, I felt my power as an Orc of the Arcane. But my kin rejected my gifts, perhaps not surprising, I could best most of them in a training session exempt the small minority of times. After all, I too am Orsimer, and wield a sword as if it were an extra limb.

Like many of my kin, I feel my Orc nature, for battle, blood and glory, at all times. Yet it conflicts with my desire to explore my magical capacity, for that is how I truly grow as a warrior. It was from a young age, I knew both my ability for magic and a blade, both wielding and crafting. Unfortunate it was, that my kin did not see this as a blessing. They tried to end my life during my pubescent years while I slept... Cowards and fools as I remember them. Cowards for fearing my magic head on, and fools for thinking they could defeat with ease. To those involved, I took their lives as payment for their ignorance. But one I let live... The Chief. Such an act was a great dishonour to any Orc, both the one spared, and the one sparing him. But I cared not to lead a clan of such weaklings.

But perhaps Malacath did not deem this reason worthy enough. My following years landed me in jails, sleeping cold on the dirt grounds of Highrock, and my magic eventually dwindled without regular practice. As an Orc though, harshness is expected, and being a sell-sword was easy enough,

but if only the pay could've granted me the needed materials for learning my craft sufficiently... I wondered if I should have headed south for the land that beckons me... It still beckons, and still I wonder, Cyrodiil. I could sense much magic there, I'm sure many could, after all, it was home to the Oblivion crisis, once upon a nightmare.

And so years passed, I found myself upon the borders of Hammerfell and Skyrim, working as a sell-sword for Schimitar wielding Redguards. They didn't judge me much, but I still couldn't learn to appreciate the Scimitar blades. They are strong blades, but somehow they are lacking, perhaps in spirit – for what is a blade without a connection to its wielder. Something like that could never be compensated for by mere aesthetic curvature.

But on a fateful day, somehow drunk as deaf penniless Bard, drinking away my coin to pass time on a whim, I fell in the dirt and selpt, and woke from the dirt into a ambush. Weapon-less, armour-less, groggy, I found myself in carriage with storm-cloak Nords, on their way to fulfil an appointment with chopping block in Helgen... The place where I first met Alduin, made my first steps towards my destiny, and understood myself better as I came to realise and understand what I was.

Indeed perhaps Battlemage is a title that Stretches the truth. But what does stand as solid fact is this, I am Orismer Todagog, The Dragon Born.


	2. Chapter 2

Todagog – Stories of an Orc Battlemage: Volume 2 (Unbound)

I remember feeling ignorant, shameful and most of all, groggy beyond all comprehension. As if it wasn't enough to wake from a drunken slumber into an imperial ambush, but to be knocked out cold and stripped of all but some rags... Embarrassing was the least an Orc would feel.

As my vision came back into focus, I remember seeing Aura's of tree's and people. There was the sound of rickety wooden wheels clutching to the dirt as they rolled. The air was cold and brisk, as if we where somewhere on a mountain, I thought to myself perhaps we were somewhere back in Highrock. But no, it was ground level, and to much life surrounded us. I looked to my left, a broad looking man, hair blonde like a Nord, bound at the wrists and seated. And which point I realised, so was I, (years from now, scholars may suggest I came from humble beginnings... such a though makes me chuckle).

And at that point also, and found myself in the afore mentioned rags. I took note of the carriage driver, an Imperial, and could see just yonder more of em, some sort of escort. Couldn't think why you'd need that many Imperials for simple prisoners. But then I noticed the garbs on the blonde... Didn't recognise them for the life of me.

With that, I looked to my right, There was another two men, one gagged as well as bound, black garbs, fancy lookin' too. The other was like me it seems, some Breton in rags... Though unlike me, looked scare to the point his bowels might collapse. Then I remember the voice, the voice of the Nord whose life I would eventually, and then unknowingly take... Yet this Nord would help would help me with what was to shortly come...

I thought writing these words would alter my perceptions, but no, I feel know as I did then. Ralof was a means to an end. (Though I hope his sister does not live to read these words. I sense a most volatile temper in her).

Ralof explained my situation. We were in Skyrim, by some distance than from what I first believed. It would seem the previous night I had walked a much greater distance than a stroll whilst drunk. Apparently, he was a Stormcloak. How I remember not caring, such naivety, salty tasting nostalgic naivety.

And apparently, I was in a carriage with royalty... Some Royal now, buried in a tomb and all might know. I had no true liking for Ulfric Stormcloak, man was a spoilt brat and yet a powerful warrior. Might have respected him more if he'd chosen the latter of the two. Believing himself to be High King of Skyrim, and apparently he had the power to shout a man to pieces. As a Mage, I was naturally curious and sceptical at such a claim, especially at that of a Nord. Turned out the squeamish Breton was a thief, trying to make a getaway from the ambush. He didn't give me much eye contact... Almost like he seemed guilty. Eyed up my rags enough times though... I think about it now, and I can't help but wonder as to how a Thief just stumbles into an ambush, and how the imperials went to such a ways as to remove my armour... Though of course, I was never told by the guards that it was them who removed my gear.

We were coming up on a gate. Rolaf told us it was Helgen upon entering, and pointing out some Thalmor agents. The Stormcloaks certainly didn't seem to like them at all. Couldn't think why back then... Can't stop hearing about why now.

We got off the carriage, an Imperial taking names on a list. That Thief, his name I didn't care to remember. Much like the arrow's entry point that took his life... Was it in the neck? Or to the knee?

I lowered my head as the priest commenced prayer, we were at the chopping block. Ironic, how the Thief was so scared of death that he ran right into... Backwards in way a perhaps.

Then I recall, another Nord, disrespectfully interrupting the prayer and having his head taken. Then I felt my body surge slightly... Something was out of place. I was not sure completely, but I sensed something was imminent, and it was not death.

I stepped forth to the block, and the guard called my name. I stepped forward cautiously, lowering my head, knowing that whatever it was that was coming would be soon... If only I had ignored that guards words, or had not been drinking the night prior, I would have known that those sounds, sounds so loud, where that of a Dragon.

It came, Alduin, first son of Akatosh, a Dragon so powerful, his landing on a Tower shook the entire of Helgen. And with a single roar, summoned a storm, and fire rained from the sky. With this the execution was quickly and permanently reprieved, as I took cover in another nearby tower, dodging citizens, my arms still tightly bound. If ever I could imagine a scene so full with helplessness, it would be Helgen.

-TBC


End file.
